Sock phobia

I have a pair of socks I can no longer wear. Bright stripy ones, in case it matters. Advertised as knee length but they never managed much past mid calf since their first wash.

But I’m scared of these socks. I keep pulling them out of the drawer but have not been able to throw them away. They are worn; holey in places. But this is not why I cannot wear them. Last month I was close to throwing them away, but now I cannot.

These socks are noticeable in the pictures, glaring out incongruously from the rest of my black garb. Vibrant glimpses shining through the uniforms of the cops dragging me to the van.

But I remember the socks most from the police station. The socks I was forcibly strip searched from as I lay restrained on the floor.

And it’s the socks I remember as they forced me through fingerprinting via pain compliance. Bright happy socks in a world of violence. Colourful merriment as my head was held down and my neck pressure pointed. Smirking stripes as my hand was bent in on itself and I cried out in pain.

I remember wishing the socks weren’t so tatty. I wanted better socks. My scruffy socks were the final degradation. I suppose it’s the wearing your best knickers syndrome. Only I don’t remember which knickers I was wearing, so my knickers don’t bother me.

But I can’t bring myself to wear these humiliating socks. Throwing them away seems like defeat. So they remain, taunting me with unresolved dilemmas, every time I open my drawer.

Suppose I might as well start somewhere

Where am I? Trying to get nowhere fast. Drifting and wandering whether drifting's the best thing to do. Or should I flap my arms rapidly and make elongated snow angels? Or would that be too painful?

I just want to chill and relax, to feel at one with myself. But I feel so aggressive, so angry. And I can't settle, can't concentrate. Too edgy. Too upset. Too fucked. Too much. If only. No. If only. I just. I need. I must. I will. Positive assertions, maybe that's what I need.

I need to be doing something. I need to be focused. I need to concentrate back on my writing. Get rid of the concentrate and get the real juices flowing. I can't let this distract me. It's one thing throwing myself back into the front line. I know I can do this. But it's picking up the threads of the rest of my life that's important I've dropped several stiches and haven't taken the time to pick them up, and the small originating hole has unravelled half of the jumper.

Dancing, singing, music, laughing, my beautiful boy. These are all important and must be celebrated. All the things that make my life fucking pleasurable. Friends and family. I musn't lose sight of what is important and immerse myself in an abyss of anger and pain. I musn't feel that isolation.

Except I can't write about what happened. Not yet. There's a lot of work to be done before I can tell the story. Fragmentary pieces are all that stumble onto the page; words which are nothing more than miscellanious jigsaw pieces found under sofa cushoins.